


Gluttony

by themus



Series: 7 Deadly Sins [4]
Category: The OC
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Gen, Heavy Angst, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-17
Updated: 2008-03-17
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themus/pseuds/themus
Summary: Seth never stopped Ryan from running away at the beginning of 102 The Model Home.





	Gluttony

**GLUTTONY:**

  _excessive eating and drinking._

 

 

 

  
“Shit!” The voice is a hard whisper, barely distinguishable even in the stillness of blue midnight. There's a noise then – a scuffed shuffling and the echoing clang of metal hitting metal followed by rasped heavy breathing. “Fucking rats.”  
  
Officer Mike Nowak twitches at the unexpected outburst. A wave of coffee spills over the lip of the styrofoam cup he is holding and spatters down his black uniform shirt, leaving a trail of seeping brown stains on the thick polyester.  
  
“Damn,” he mutters quietly, brushing uselessly at the tear-shaped spot on his light blue pocket flap. Coffee is dripping down his fingers too, already cool due to the chill bite in the wind. It runs down the side of his thumb and under the cuff of the shirt, tickling to a stop halfway down his forearm.  
  
There's no salvaging the mess so he simply swaps the coffee to the other hand and wipes the drips off onto his pant leg, sipping at the steaming liquid as he does so. The warmth travels down his throat and into his stomach, but it does nothing to stop the jaw-splitting yawn that makes his eyes water.  
  
Mike looks out across the empty parking lot beside the drab grey restaurant, blinking the blurriness away from the edges of his vision, and for a moment he thinks he sees something – a scruffy shadow of a shape - scurrying across the patchy white lines that mark out the motorcycle bays.  
  
One of the employees disturbed a rat, he thinks, as he watches the shape disappear into the thorny shrubs that separate the parking lot from the street, dragging a long pink-grey tail behind it.  
  
He yawns again, tries to rub the life back into his eyes with the palm of his hand. Three weeks on field training and so far there's only one thing Mike is sure of; he is not designed for the graveyard shift. Thirteen more weeks of this – and he's not thinking about the inauspiciousness of _that_ number – and he'll get himself back on days. Even if he has to kill someone to do it.  
  
There's more scuffling from round the corner of the building and then an elongated creaking noise. It's slow, as if someone is trying to be quiet, and he feels the hairs prickle up across the back of his neck.  
  
Something about this isn't right.  
  
One look back in the restaurant tells him that his training officer is still going to be a while yet, waiting to the side of the counter for his order, rotund belly straining against his belt.  
  
The wind whips up again, pushing at the stunted trees at the edge of the parking lot, as Mike sets his coffee on the hood of the locked Crown Vic, puts a hand to the butt of his pistol and heads round the side of the building, feeling the reassuring weight of the magazine pressing against his cold palm.  
  
Everything is a threat, Shaddixis constantly drilling into him. As soon as you put on the uniform, everything is a threat.  
  
As he moves out of the glare of the restaurant windows his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, picking out the details with nervous over-enthusiasm: the bulbless security light above the fire exit; the discarded boxes piled sloppily against the wall; a single broadsheet page, one half flapping in the breeze like a bird with a broken wing. And a hunched shadow in the darkness, folded painfully over the edge of a dumpster.  
  
“Hey,” he calls.  
  
The shadow practically leaps backwards, feet hitting the floor loudly before scrambling away. Mike’s hand tightens around the grip of his pistol in reaction to the movement and his heart is racing – jump-started into double-time at the prospect of a chase, but at the last second the person jerks to a halting stop, shifting restlessly on the spot.  
  
Definitely not an employee.  
  
His heart begins to slow again as he pulls out his flashlight and clicks it on, focusing on the figure stalled in the hulking shadow of the building. He's surprised to find a kid, shaking in squeaky-new sneakers, the pristine white toes protruding from beneath jeans that are torn at the bottom – dragging long tufts of black denim on the ground.  
  
The flashlight is a harsh glare, picking out scrawny features and a face that has gone unshaven for some days. When the kid turns his head, sending a longing look toward the far end of the parking lot – away from him – Mike picks out a bruise on the side of his neck; the heavy tread of a footprint clearly visible in blotched browns and purples. He has something clutched tightly in one hand, and it takes Mike a moment to catch the red and green logo on the wrapping, peeking out between fingers that are too much bone and not much else.  
  
“What have you got there?” he asks, gesturing slightly with the flashlight. Even though he's sure he knows already – can tell from the angles of the kid's face, the way his collarbone protrudes too starkly through his thin t-shirt – that it's been a long time since this kid has had a decent meal.  
  
“It's not stealing,” the kid declares uncertainly, and Mike winces at the gravelly edge to the voice as the kid shifts his weight back and forth unconsciously, and then stops himself with a visible shake of his head.  
  
“No, I know.” Shaddix has gleefully sent him searching through dumpsters for tossed weapons a number of times already. He’s well aware that trash is no-one’s property.  
  
Stick-thin fingers tighten again around the discarded food, as if the kid still thinks it will be confiscated. As if Mike has nothing better to do than take a stale, half-eaten chicken fajita rollup away from some starving kid. Or whatever it is. Whatever _he_ is.  
  
“It's not stealing,” the kid stutters again, mostly to himself, and Mike catches the way the kid's eyes are dancing – from his uniform to his gun to the polished black and white behind him.  
  
Mike's radio crackles and the kid jerks as if shot, shoulders tensing up and inward.  
  
_"We've got a 58 in progress in Homestead Meadows South,"_ the dispatcher drawls through the static. _"Complainant reports screaming, crying and objects thrown. 3531 Deerfield Park Drive._ _That's three five three one Deerfield Park Drive._ _Respond on F2."_  
  
Mike ignores the call; they're on the other side of the city here and graves is a quiet shift – he knows Shaddix will ignore it too, expecting one of the closer units to take it. "Come on out here," he nods sideways to the patch of light in front of the restaurant, "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions."  
  
He's beginning to become nervous staying here in the shadows with an unknown subject and he's eager to get back out in front of the restaurant windows, where his FTO can see him and intervene, should it be required.  
  
The kid visibly winces, letting out a heavy breath of frustration through his teeth, but steps forward anyway – hands clenched tight and head down.  
  
Mike doesn't need his flashlight anymore so he clicks it off and slides it back into it's pocket on his belt, reaching out and snagging his coffee from the hood of the car, feeling clumsy and awkward the entire time.  
  
The kid watches him from beneath heavy bangs of greasy blonde hair as Mike takes a sip and grimaces at the rapidly cooling liquid. He puts it down again and rests his hand on his hip, for a moment totally stumped on what to do next.  
  
“Have you got ID?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.  
  
He doesn’t even mean to say it, but it’s the automatic first question and the kid looks like he expected it – sending a sidelong glance at the cruiser’s tyres and then back again, focusing on the laces of Mike’s well-oiled Danners.  
  
He shrugs jerkily. “I forgot it,” he whispers.  
  
“You know you’re out past curfew.”  
  
“I’m eighteen,” the kid answers quickly.  
  
Mike wonders if he should take a name and DOB, get a wants and records check, because this kid is acting too nervous, too jumpy to just be some juvenile who stayed out too late. Nervous and jumpy always means guilt, he is learning, and Mike doesn’t want to let the kid go and then find out later he’s got a warrant out on him for murder.  
  
But the kid's shrunken posture – the way he is hunched in tight as if he is willing himself invisible – hardly screams 'danger to society' and Mike decides to believe the lie, just this once. "Okay," he relents quietly, nodding to himself. “How about you tell me what you're doing in a dumpster in the middle of the night?"  
  
The kid's face hardens with angry shame, jaw clenching so tight Mike can swear he hears the teeth grinding together. "I was hungry. That a crime too, now?" he demands, looking up and straight into Mike's eyes for a short moment, the sudden spark of deep emotion somewhat unsettling. So much so that Mike almost finds himself taking a step back under the intensity of the look.  
  
But then he remembers himself, remembers the uniform he spent almost six months earning the right to wear, and he shrugs himself tall. "You might want to cut the attitude, son. I'm not looking to get you in trouble, but if you carry on like that you might find yourself in the middle of some anyway," Mike points out, knowing that if things even start looking heated his FTO will come out and take charge. And that will mean an automatic run through NCIC for this kid, just on principle. Shaddix is nothing if not ruthlessly thorough.  
  
And just like that the kid's face blanks and he drops his head in defeat again. “I'm sorry,” he mutters, not very convincingly. He sighs, moving to put his hand into the pocket of his jeans and then stopping himself short - fingers trembling finely in midair - and carefully pressing his palm to his stomach.  
  
“How about you come on in and I'll buy you a meal – a hot one,” Mike adds, throwing a disgusted look at the food the kid is still clutching in his left hand. “And a coffee. I bet you could do with some warming up.”  
  
As if to prove him right the wind picks up again, pushing chilly tendrils down the back of Mike's neck, despite the thick collar of his uniform shirt. It slaps violently at the kid's t-shirt and he shivers hard, teeth smacking together loudly before he clamps his jaw, ducking his head so far that all Mike can see is the black grains of dirt stippled through his hair.  
  
He shakes his head then, a quick side-to-side followed by a sharp, “No, thank you. I'd rather just get going.”  
  
Mike thinks the tone is due to the sudden icy wind, but frustration is visible in the lines on the kid's face and in his eyes when he glances up, focus latching on the badge above Mike's pocket which is reflecting back the restaurant lights, shifting gold and silver as he breathes.  
  
The wind stills again just as the door to the restaurant opens, chime buzzing loudly in the quiet. Shaddix waddles out, carrying an armful of greasy paper bags and a supersize cup with foam dripping slowly down its side. He still has his hat on, though it's dark out compared to the spotlighted interior, and it's pulled down low over his brow to hide a receding and greying hairline.  
  
Mike shuffles sideways, twisting slightly towards his FTO as the man approaches them. “Hey, Sarge, have we got a minute? I was just gonna buy this kid a sandwich or something,” he says, trying to keep his voice low.  
  
Shaddix unlocks the cruiser and the lights flash once, brightly. Mike can see the kid flinch from the corner of his eye. The sergeant drops the bags in the driver's seat and turns back to them, leaning one arm on the roof of the car and the other along the door, belly pressing against the window obscenely. He looks the kid up and down as he scratches at his wrinkled neck and then throws a disapproving look at Mike.  
  
“You were 'just gonna' nothing,” he says, frowning so hard that his double chin turns into a triple. “We're not here to do charity work, we're here to catch bad guys. You want food, kid, go to a soup kitchen. Now beat it.” He emphasises the command with an irritated flap of the hand, not bothering to give the kid a second glance before climbing into the car and rearranging the bags along the dashboard.  
  
The kid shuffles back a step, looking nervously at Mike, unsure, then takes another.  
  
Mike just shakes his head, apologetic, and sighs heavily, swiping his now cold coffee from the hood of the car.  
  
The kid steps back again, wobbling on unsteady legs. Then he spins on his heel and runs, feet pounding at the asphalt.  
  
Mike has barely got into the car before a thickly-wrapped sandwich lands in his lap, sending a sudden wave of warmth through the leg of his pants.  
  
“Forget about it, rookie. It's nothing but a waste of time trying to help punks like that,” Shaddix comments with a mouth stuffed full of food. “No point standing out in the cold on a night like tonight,” he says, raising the remaining half of his devoured burger as if it is somehow significant. “They'll just take your respect and stab you in the back.”  
  
“It was just a kid, Sarge,” Mike protests.  
  
A kid that he can still see, flitting through the shadows at the edge of the parking lot – a small disruption in the darkness between the streetlamps' jaundiced light.  
  
Mike handles the still-wrapped sandwich with growing disinterest before finally stuffing it into the glove compartment for later.  
  
Suddenly he doesn't have much of an appetite.  
  
“It was just a hungry kid,” he says again.  
  
Shaddix shakes his head, stuffing the rest of the burger into his mouth. Ketchup is smeared across his cheek and the tips of his fingers, quickly staining red, like blood. “Fucking street rats.”  
  
Mike picks up the radio to check back in, watching the far distance through the cruiser's immaculate windscreen, where the kid is still running, white sneakers catching light erratically. Then he blinks and the kid is gone, nothing left of him but the sound of fading footsteps and a rapidly dwindling shadow in the darkness.  
  



End file.
